


Practice On Me

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Fluff, Hair Braiding, Kate Bishop Is a Good Bro, Nail Polish, POV Bucky Barnes, Pre-Slash, Spa Treatments, Touching, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Bucky's air conditioning is broke, so Clint invites him to spend the day at his apartment. A mini spa day ensues.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Kate Bishop & Lucky, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 28
Kudos: 180





	Practice On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [this picture](https://not-the-blue.tumblr.com/post/618584318903713792/fandomforoz-art-for-letsallsleepoverwork-who) by [not-the-blue](https://not-the-blue.tumblr.com/) on tumblr
> 
> ETA: HeyBoyDraws made [this FANTASTIC piece of artwork](https://heyboydraws.tumblr.com/post/627385880489984000/french-braid-inspired-by-the-askfdhsjkdfh) to go with this fic, please go check it out and give it the rebloggable love it deserves!!

_New York in August_ , Bucky thinks, _is a special kind of hell._

He’s laying on the floor of his apartment with the shades all drawn and a fan blasting directly on him. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers. His entire body is pressed to the cool hardwood of the floor. There’s a cold washcloth over his forehead. An iced water sitting next to him. And yet _none_ of it is making a dent in the heat. It’s thick. It’s awful. It’s like breathing soup.

“Definitely hell,” he says to the dark room. “One-hundred percent, Grade A, whole wheat hell.”

His phone rings. Bucky cracks an eye open, then gropes around on the floor for it until he can stab at it. “What?”

Clint’s voice echoes through the speaker. “Oooh, you sound angry. What’s wrong?”

“I’m _hot_ ,” Bucky says. “My air conditioning is broke, and the guy can’t fix it until Friday.”

“Oh god.” Clint sounds horrified. “That’s the worst thing I’ve heard today.” He pauses, and then says, “Well, second worst. My favorite taco guy was out of the spicy guacamole. I had to settle for regular.”

“It must be hard being you,” Bucky says dryly, and Clint laughs. “Anyway. What do you want?”

“I was going to ask if I could come over,” Clint says. “But I think now it would be better if you came to my place instead.”

Bucky squints at the phone. “Huh?” He likes Clint well enough, but their relationship isn’t exactly the casual hanging out type. Or at least, _he_ doesn’t think it is. Maybe Clint does. Bucky’s not great at reading things like that. He’s been away from Hydra for a while now, but he still has trouble with the whole friendship thing. It’s hard to trust people when the screaming voice in the back of his mind keeps flashing neon danger signs at the slightest move from the other person. “Why do you want to come over?”

“Remember the other day when the comms went down on a mission?”

Bucky scratches his head, irritably moving the strands of damp hair from his forehead. “Yeah.” They’d been fighting some fringe A.I.M. group or something, and the bad guys had actually managed to jam the Avengers’ communications. Stark had been _pissed_ , something Bucky had found a more than a little amusing.

“I was standing like, five feet from you, and I said—“ Clint clears his throat and adopts a truly terrible southern drawl “—‘What we got here is a failure to communicate.’”

“Yes, I remember.” Clint had looked expectantly at him, and he’d looked blankly back, and it had been awkward for everyone involved. Then Clint had sighed and muttered something about ‘educating him one of these days.’ “What about it?”

“Well,” Clint says, “it’s from a movie. _Cool Hand Luke_. It’s great, it’s a classic, and we’re gonna watch it.”

“I’m not really interested,” Bucky starts, but Clint cuts him off.

“I didn’t ask if you were _interested_ , Bucky, I said we were gonna watch it. I need to catch you up on movies so when I appropriately quote them mid-battle, you appreciate my quick wit and genius.” There’s a muffled voice on the other end, and then distantly, Clint says, “Shut up, Kate.”

Bucky chuckles. “Well. When you put it _that_ way.”

“Exactly. Besides, I have air conditioning, so any arguments you make are invalid. You in?”

“I’m in,” Bucky says, surprising himself with how quickly he answers. “Let me get some clothes on and I’ll be right over.”

“Sweet. I’ll text you the address.”

“I know where you live, Clint.”

“Okay, that was _literally_ the most serial killer way you could have said that—”

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes,” Bucky says, and he hangs up. He’s smiling, and somehow the heat and darkness in his apartment suddenly seems less oppressive.

He knocks on Clint’s door thirty minutes later, dripping sweat and decidedly less happy about coming here than he was before. _Fucking August heat, I swear._

“Hey,” Clint says, opening the door. He’s awkwardly crouched down, one hand clenched around the collar of a yellow dog. “Gimme a sex— _sec_ , dammit—“ His face flushes and he snaps his mouth shut, pulling the dog backwards. “Lucky, get back here.”

Bucky snorts. “Wit and genius, huh?”

“Shut up, Barnes.” Clint gets the dog back enough to open the door, and Bucky steps into the blessed coolness of air conditioning. “Shut up and pay the dog tax.”

Bucky obligingly kneels down to pet Lucky. “Hi buddy,” he croons. “Who’s a good boy, huh?”

“Hey, Buck,” Kate says, waving at him from the kitchen island. She’s perched on a stool, painting her nails a bright red. “How’s it going?”

“It’s hot,” Bucky says. “I’m moving to the North Pole or something, I swear. I forgot how damn _humid_ it gets here in the summer.”

“Don’t do that,” Clint says, tossing an arrow over by the couch. “There’s no penguins in the North Pole.” Both Kate and Bucky turn to look at him with incredulous expressions, and he shrugs, brushing a hand through his hair. “What? There’s not.”

“I like how _that’s_ the first thing you think about,” Kate says.

Clint shrugs and drops on the couch. “Penguins are cool, Katie-Kate. Literally and…regularly.” He motions to Bucky. “Come. Florida chain gangs await us.”

“What is this even about?” Bucky asks, settling on the couch.

“I just told you,” Clint says. “Florida chain gangs. Weren’t you listening?”

Bucky sighs and brushes his hair off his neck. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” Clint corrects, and he starts the movie.

It’s actually a decent movie, all things considered, and Bucky finds himself enjoying the story. He also enjoys the way Clint is sprawled over the arm of the couch, leg casually bumping against Bucky’s side. It’s nice. No one ever touched him like this in Hydra. No one touched him at all, unless they had to, and it was always clinical. Dispassionate. This is easy warmth, and Bucky likes it.

He brushes his hair off his neck again, scowling as the strands get tangled in his fingers. He keeps meaning to cut it, but he hasn’t been able to work up the nerve. His memories of haircuts are _not_ good ones. His mouth goes dry every time he thinks about it.

There’s a soft touch to his head, and he jumps a little as he turns. Clint looks down at him, his hand gently resting on Bucky’s hair. He gently untangles Bucky’s hand. “Is it bothering you?”

“Is what?” Bucky’s a little distracted by the press of fingers against his head, and how good it feels.

“Your hair.” Clint tugs it a little. “You keep pushing it around. Is it bothering you? You want it cut?”

“It’s long,” Bucky says, leaning his head back with the pressure. “I don’t like it long, but the last time they cut it…”

He shudders, thinking about how he’d been forced into a chair and held down. They hadn’t told him what they were doing, and he wasn’t supposed to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself from being terrified. They’d used a knife to saw at his hair, and laughed when he’d flinched.

Clint puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, drawing Bucky out of the memory. “You okay?”

“Bad memories,” Bucky murmurs. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, resting it on Clint’s thigh. “It’s nothing new.”

Clint makes a soft noise and scratches Bucky’s head. “You don’t have to cut it,” he says. “But if you want, I can braid it for you. Get it off your neck.”

Bucky opens his eyes. “You can _braid_?”

“Of course I can,” he says, sounding affronted. “I had to help do hair and makeup and stuff for the circus, you know. I got good at all kinds of braids.”

“It’s true,” Kate says. “He did my hair for a wedding once. People thought it was professional.”

“Talented fingers,” Clint says, waggling his free hand in Bucky’s face. He accompanies this with a little smirk, and Bucky’s heart goes a little faster for reasons he can’t really identify. “So? Want me to braid it?”

Bucky considers for a second. He normally doesn’t care for people touching his hair, but he likes the way Clint’s fingers are rubbing at his scalp. It kind of makes him want to melt into the couch. “Yeah,” he finally says. “You can braid it.”

Clint beams at him. “Okay. Sit up a little for me.”

Bucky rearranges himself on the couch. Clint leans over and picks up a little hairbrush from the side table, then pulls a hair tie over his wrist.

“You got a preference?” Clint asks as he starts brushing out Bucky’s hair. “For the kind of braid.”

“There’s more than one?”

Clint laughs. “Yeah.” He gently works out a knot. “Lots of ‘em. I can do a regular one, or a French braid, or a fishtail, or a Dutch braid, or a five-strand, or a reverse braid…” He trails off, still combing through. “Anything strike your fancy?”

“Put him in a French braid,” Kate says, coming over. She’s blowing on her fingernails to dry them. “Last one you did on me looked great.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bucky says. “Go for it.”

Clint’s fingers deftly start separating sections. “Kate, you should paint his nails. Let’s go full spa day on him.”

“Half spa day,” Kate says, getting up. “Full spa day includes face masks.”

“Ah. Next time, then.”

“Face masks?” Bucky thinks about the air purification filter he used to wear, but something tells him that’s not what they’re talking about.

Kate comes back with the red nail polish. “Tomorrow,” she says. “It’s great for your skin. I’ll make some DIY ones for us.” She picks up Bucky’s hand and examines his nails, then scowls. “These cuticles are awful. Hang on. I need more equipment.” She gets up again and goes up the stairs.

Bucky is not entirely sure what’s happening, but he’s comfortable and happy, so he just decides to roll with it. Small price to pay for air conditioning.

Clint hums softly to himself while he works, twisting strands around his fingers with ease. “You can alway ask for this,” he says to Bucky. “As long as we’re not, like, in the middle of a mission or something. I’m always happy to do hair. I used to do Nat’s all the time.”

“I…” Bucky turns his head to the side, meeting Clint’s gaze. He’s not entirely sure what to make of the way Clint’s looking at him. There’s an openness to his gaze, and a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. It’s a little sweet, a little sexy, and Bucky kind of wants to stare at him forever.

He clears his throat. “I’ll try. I’m not…good. At asking for things.”

“I’m aware,” Clint says. “But you can practice on me.”

Kate plops herself on the couch and puts her foot up, propping Bucky’s hand on her knee. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s fix this little disaster.”

Bucky watches Kate make quick work of his hand, and admittedly, it does look a lot better when she’s done. Then she pulls out the nail polish and starts painting. “There we go,” she murmurs to it. “Gonna make you look _so_ pretty.”

Clint snorts and pulls the hair tie off his wrist, wrapping it around Bucky’s hair with a flourish. “Ta-da,” he says. “Katie-Kate, what do you think?”

She doesn’t look up. “Lovely.”

“You’re not even looking.”

“I’m busy.” She paints Bucky’s thumbnail, then sets his hand down. “Okay. Other hand.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “It’s metal.”

“So?”

“It doesn’t have fingernails.”

“Your point?”

He sighs and hands it over.

“Good.” She dips the brush in and paints the smallest plates of metal at the tip. “See? It works.”

“You’re gonna have to triple coat that,” Clint points out. His hand is on Bucky’s neck, fingertips rubbing right at his hairline. Bucky has to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning. He had _no_ idea something so simple could feel so good.

“I’ve got enough,” Kate says. She looks up, noting the expression on Bucky’s face. Then her eyes flicker to Clint’s hand and she smiles a little. Bucky feels his cheeks warm, and the smile gets bigger. “You know,” she adds, “it’s only Tuesday.”

“It’s Tuesday?” Clint squints over at the calendar hanging loosely on the opposite wall. “I thought it was Sunday.”

Bucky snorts and nudges him with an elbow. “I really wonder how you manage your life sometimes.”

“It’s all thanks to me,” Kate says. She pulls his hand back into position. “In any case, it’s Tuesday. You said they’re not fixing your air conditioning until Friday, right?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “You should stay here, then.”

Bucky blinks in surprise. Behind him, Clint’s hand stills, and he says, “What?”

“It’s _hot_ out there,” she says, gesturing to the window. “He doesn’t have air conditioning. You’re really gonna make the poor boy suffer for the next three days?”

Clint hums thoughtfully. “You have a point.” His hand starts moving again. “Although I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of etiquette rule about offering up _other_ people’s apartments. You don’t even live here.”

“No,” she agrees. “But I’m a perceptive person.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says, blowing to dry Bucky’s fingernails, “that you want him to stay, and he wants to stay, and both of you are too dumb to figure this out on your own. I’m just cutting to the chase for you.” She pats Bucky’s leg and gets up. “Don’t touch anything. If you smear those, I’ll shoot you.”

“She will,” Clint says. “I’ve seen it.” He rubs his thumb over Bucky’s pulse, and it jumps a little at his touch. “Anyway. Do you wanna stay, Buck? You’re welcome to. You can have the couch. I’ll even wash up a coffee mug for you.”

Kate puts the polish on the table and picks up her bow, slinging it over her shoulder. “You should be honored,” she says to Bucky. “He basically just proposed to you.”

“Shut up, Kate,” Clint says, and Bucky turns his head in time to catch a blush. He pulls his hand off Bucky’s neck and gets up. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Kate says. “I promised a friend I’d meet him for lunch.”

“You need your bow for that?”

“I haven’t decided how _good_ of friends we are,” she says. Then she kisses Clint on the cheek and murmurs something in his ear. Clint blushes again, and she grins. “Later, Hawkeye.”

“Later, Hawkeye.”

The door slams behind her, and Clint rubs a hand through his hair, making it even messier. Then he turns around to face Bucky. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, do you want to stay?”

Bucky considers for a second, but he already knows the answer. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

The answering smile he gets tells him that Clint does not mind at all. “Nah, man. It’ll be fun. We can go all girly-girl slumber party. Throw popcorn at the TV and trade deep dark secrets and do each other’s hair.” He waves vaguely at the room. “Kate and I once set up a hell of a blanket fort, if you’re interested.”

“I’ve never done any of that before,” Bucky admits. “But it sounds fun.”

“Hell yeah.” Clint rubs his hair again. He shuffles his weight, suddenly looking a little unsure of himself. Like he doesn’t know exactly what to do now.

Bucky watches for a moment, then pats the couch. “Come sit down.”

Clint takes his previous position, maybe a little more stiffly than before, eyes fixed on the screen. Bucky leans against him again, and after a moment, Clint relaxes. He keeps his hands on his lap, though, and Bucky finds himself missing the touch. He wants it again. Wants Clint’s fingers in his hair.

_I’m not good at asking for things._

_That’s okay. You can practice on me._

Bucky takes a deep breath. “I liked it when you touched my hair,” he says.

Clint shifts against him. “Hmm?”

“My hair. I liked it. I—I want you to do it again.”

Clint obliges, gently rubbing his fingers around Bucky’s scalp. “It’ll mess up the braid,” he says softly, but when Bucky turns his head back to look, there’s a slight smile on his face.

“That’s okay,” he says, tilting his head into the comforting pressure. “You can just do it again, if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Good,” Clint murmurs, the smile growing bigger. “I’d be happy to.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [French Braid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26096047) by [HeyBoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyBoy/pseuds/HeyBoy)




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